It was evident that he was not in the same category with his unfortunate countrymen “between decks”—doomed to perpetual captivity. There were no signs that he had been treated as a captive, but the contrary.
How, then, was his presence on board the slave-barque to be accounted for? Was he a passenger? In what relationship did he stand to the people who surrounded him?
Such, though differently worded, were the interrogatories put by the slave-merchant, as, returning from the fore-deck, after completing his inspection of the cargo, his eyes for the first time fell upon the young Fellatta.
“Blesh my shtars, Captain Showler!” cried he, holding up both hands, and looking with astonishment at the turbaned individuals on the quarter-deck. “Blesh my shtars!” he repeated; “what ish all thish? S’help my Gott! theesh fellows are not shlaves, are they?”
“No, Mister Jessuron, no. They ain’t slaves, not all on ’em ain’t. That ’ere fine fellow, in silk and satin, air a owner o’ slaves hisself. He air a prince.”
“What dosh you say, Captin Showler? a prinshe?”
“Ye ain’t ’stonished at that, air ye? ’Tain’t the fust time I’ve had an African prince for a passenger. This yeer’s his Royal Highness the Prince Cingües, son o’ the Grand Sultan of Foota-toro. The other fellows you see thar by him are his attendants—courteers as waits on him. That with the yellow turban’s ‘gold stick;’ him in blue ’s ‘silver stick;’ an’ t’other fellow’s ‘groom o’ the chamber,’ I s’pose.”
“Sultan of Foota-toro!” exclaimed the slave-merchant, still holding up the blue umbrella in surprise; “King of the Cannibal Islandsh! Aha, a good shoke, Captain Showler! But, serious, mine friend, what for hash you tricked them out in this way? They won’t fetch a joey more in the market for all theesh fine feathers.”
“Seerus, Mister Jessuron, they’re not for the market. I sw’ar to ye the fellur’s a real Afrikin prince.”
“African fiddleshtick!” echoed the slave-merchant with an incredulous shrug. “Come, worthy captin, what’sh the mashquerade about?”